Dust Under Our Feet
by onewithroses
Summary: Derek's teeth snap just shy of his shoulder and he yells, shoving his hand right into Derek's face and pushing. "Come on, you guys just going to sit around and growl at each other or are you actually going to get something donetoday." Stiles looked at his hand and fake-gagged, wiping the spit onto his pants.
1. Chapter 1

"Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little _**dust under our feet**_." The Celtic Twilight by W. B. (William Butler) Yeats

He used to have dreams like this. Dreams where he was running. Running through the underbrush-branches snapping in his face and leaving stinging tracks across his cheeks and tangling in his hair. Under his feet the leaves crunched with the sound of fall and heavy winter to come and he was _running_-running until he had no breath left and his chest heaved, curling a sick _wet_ keening sound beneath his breast bone and before his lungs.

On those nights he'd wake up with a scream in his throat, and he'd run on the balls of feet all the way to the foot of his mother's bed. She was always, always already awake. Every night, she took his hand. She made him a cup of warm milk with a spoonful of vanilla syrup and a few drops of blue food coloring. Just enough to taste; just enough to see. It was important. She wrapped her arms around him and they watched the sky turn light from their kitchen window. He could smell the soap she used, feel her heart beat. He calmed-perhaps the only time he ever really felt calm. Willing to stay still. She never asked what scared him.

Their late nights ended too soon, and now there was no one to wake up to.

He stepped, felt his breathing strangle against his throat, and then his ankle shifted-flinging him sideways and down until he was on his face and rolling into the moist underside of fall leaves, breathing in dirt and rot, as he crashed off the path and down a side bunker.

Rocks. Wet leaves. The sound of rustling, restless, feet and loud voices. Stiles sucked in air through his mouth and felt it come in as a clucking wheeze.

"Where did he go?" He knew that voice. Chris Argent.

The other was muffled, though, intelligible. A negative, though, because Stiles was still here. Stiles was still crunched down on one side-no_crouched_. Crouched sounded better. Like he had planned this all along and not like he had slipped and fallen.

"Damnit." Chris again. Allison's father. Stiles tried to breath through his nose and almost choked on his own throat. Everything hurt. Allison. Where was Allison? Scott. What about . "That one was human."

"I didn't know."

"Yeah. Of course you didn't." The sound of a scuffing shoe. "Just a room full of fangs and fur and you happen to stuff a handful of flowers "

That was right. A room full of fangs. A meeting. Derek and Scott and Allison and even Lydia all packed in together with all his new were-pups on what was left of the subway cars. He had been trying not to notice the blood stain on the seat, trying to ignore the way Scott was getting right in Derek's face and growling.

Hadn't he been telling them before how important setting ground rules were? Ground Rules. Rules with the ground in them. Rules that everyone had to follow. Which, really, was likely how they got into that mess in the first place. Who would bring a hunter's daughter to forming-pack meets and not expect her to be followed _eventually_.

No one could expect them to not try to break up their little parties at some point. _They had people combing the cameras in the city for crying out loud._

"Alright, everyone, break it up!" Stiles was probably the least threatening of all of them but he was also the least intimidating. .

Well. Most of the time. Derek's teeth snap just shy of his shoulder and he yells, shoving his hand right into Derek's face and _pushing_. "_Come on_, you guys just going to sit around and growl at each other or are you actually going to get something _done_ today." Stiles looked at his hand and fake-gagged, wiping the spit onto his pants. "Because I don't know about you but Buffy reruns are waiting for me at home if this is just going to be a repeat episode of Big Wolf on Campus with the addition of ass-sniffing."

Jackson bit down a laugh as Erica stood up and swung, shimmied from her seat in the back. "Well, what do you have in mind then, Stiles?"

Or maybe that was part of the dream because Lydia was also talking and then there was the clatter of tin on rusted metal floors and _smoke_. Smoke. And coughing. Scott calling for Allison. Lydia gasping. Babbling. _Not again. Not again. Not again._

And then the sound of cracking, growling-the taste of greenery and lavender in his face, on his tongue. Fingers forcing it down his throat _he was going to throw up. Where the fuck was anyone?_

This always seemed to happen-and then there was a growling sound and the person behind him was ripped away, cracking against the subway car walls and into the smoke that obscured everything.

There was a hand on his arm and it was full of claws and then he was being drug through the smoke.

"Scott-you take him. Stiles. Get them out of here." Derek's voice without Derek and Stiles was stuck spitting out foliage and sputtering until his ass hit the subway car step and he tumbled out into the open air.

"Come on. Come on, Stiles, we gotta go." Scott. It was Scott. And the others were there, too. Lydia. Allison-though Allison was yelling something and running the other way. To her family? To explain? He couldn't catch that, but he could catch the mournful look Scott sent his way.

Then, Boyd grabbed him around the waist and sent him to his feet. "I'm going to help get Derek out, you get out. We'll meet you later."

Which meant text. Did he even still have his phone? He was better than this. Normally, he was scattered but he still had everything he needed-knew where it was. He spat out red-yellow flower petals and lurched into Lydia who gave him a shove over to Erica.

He drove. Bullets and broken subway cars were behind him. He could almost hear the ring of an Alpha's roar follow them, but then the road was before him. It stretched out as far as he could see. Beyond the veterinary clinic. Beyond Scott's house. Beyond the school.

There were woods.

And talking. He normally liked talking but, then, he normally felt a lot more connected than he did right now. With all the voices crammed into the back of his jeep. He shouldn't have more than three passengers, his dad said. Three. And he had Scott, Lydia, Erica, and Isaac.

"Stiles."

Where was Jackson? He had his own car.

"Stiles."

A hand was on his shoulder and on the shoulder of the road there was woods. Woods. And he needed to get out. Suddenly. Desperately. He needed to be running. Running. Running.

The car swerved. The girls screamed. Scott grabbed him by the shoulders, yelling in his ear, "_What was that for_?"

And then he was out of the car and running with all the voices and all the questions chasing behind him.

"What is it?"

"What's going on?"

"I don't know. I don't know. Hold on. Allison's texting me." A break. Pause. Quiet. "Her dad's on the way. We gotta get out of here."

"What we're just going to leave-"

And then there were trees and leaves smashing their voices into the hush.

* * *

No one is there when he wakes up again-_was he ever asleep?_-and he feels cold and stiff like how he felt after the Kanima paralytic wore off.

Chris, if Chris was there, is gone and there are no flashlights. Or howling. Or sounds of lurking wolves with faces that speak of judgement. What were you doing, Stiles?

What were you thinking?

He got asked that a lot. Coming home from school with a teacher's note about acting out. Speaking too loud. Not staying still. Moving things. Always. Always moving things. His mother kept each one in a box that he pretended he didn't notice but, once, she caught him staring.

"I'm not keeping them to remind me of how bad you are," she had chided him gently. His eyes were her eyes but her hair was long and thick. Manageable in the way his often wasn't. "I'm keeping them to remember _all_ of you."

His mother was gone long before she was _gone_. But, then, there had always been something _special_ about her-and not just by the way a little boy sees his mother as the most beautiful, the most magical, woman alive. There was a kindness and a quietness about her that set his boundless energy to peace for moments at a time.

And one time, just once in all their midnight meetings with blue vanilla milk and sometimes banana or apple slices, she spoke to him. She had been thin, then. Too thin. Wasting away before his eyes even as she ate fruit chips and the healthiest grain crackers he could find at the grocery store with his dad. Stiles would have done anything to keep her, would have bought anything if it turned out to be the magic cure-even the worst of the worst tasting whole grain pancakes. No syrup.

"I had dreams like yours." She had said, wiping his lips with a white paper napkin. "I had them when I was a child. I dreamed I was running-and you know where I ended up?" He shook his head, his eyes on the patch of grass and forgotten vegetables in their backyard. She smiled and brushed her fingers through the buzz of his hair. He imagined he could feel every bone caressing his. "I was running through the woods and I ran right through a fairy circle. And when I got out of it I ran to you."

The sound he had made was strangled but it only made the strange smile on his mother's lips grow wider and he turned his burning eyes into her bony shoulder. She pressed the napkin against his shoulder and it was full of red-purple pollen.

Stiles never stayed asleep long enough to run into anyone. He always woke in the middle.

But this wasn't a dream and he _was_ choking on dirt.

Stiles got to his feet and stumbled back away from the incline he had rolled down. The main road was too risky. He'd have to go another way. His ankle ached and burned. He turned and walked into a mushroom field.

* * *

There's a certain look to someone having a seizure. There's a certain experience to it, too. Erica knows it intimately-the latter more than the former but watching Stiles body jerk is trying to even out the score.

Or maybe not-because while he is jerking (and she doesn't want to touch him, doesn't want to be on this side of someone seizing out) he also seems to be coughing and gasping and half-coordinately grabbing at the rubble around him.

"_Don't go into the woods_."

And then he speaks. It's garbled and unclear, clutched and cluttered, but Erica had a crush on Stiles. She sat behind him in math class and stared and listened and hoped-just like any other girl would who was too fucking scared to speak to their crush. She's not that girl anymore, but she _remembers it_ the way she remembers seizing-like she's just watching it through some asshole's cell phone cam.

"Derek." She calls Derek first because he's her Alpha and though Scott's Stile's supposed best friend he's not the one to call in an emergency. "I found him."

"Mom." Stiles has gone still as Derek crashes through the trees with Scott right behind him. His eyes are red and Erica steps back quick, involuntarily. "Don't go into the woods."

He blinks. Slow. Up into tree limbs and pre-dawn blue.

"Stiles." Derek crouches, nose flaring, and taps Stile's face with the tips of his fingers. "Look at me." He holds up three fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Stiles seems to conclude he needs to do anything but continue his one-man conversation by trying to swipe the offending hand away and frowning back up into the sky. "Oh, _man_." He sucked in air and let it out again. "How long have I been in the woods?"


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, the entire night settles on him like a bad cold or the beginnings of the flu. He shivers, he shakes, his fingers ache with pressure. The energy normally lets out by never standing still and talking a mile a minute seems to leak out of his ears and onto the bed-leaving him prone and suffocating into the mattress. He receives, in return, half-dozen designated visitors hovering in his window, across his door jam, in his text message inbox, webcam, and even finding such cunning ruses as bringing in the mail and delivering the newspaper to be granted access.

"I don't know why you agreed to go camping." His father may or may not have bought the story but there had to be an explanation. They arrived on Stile's front doorstep all wrong. Just as his dad was leaving, they came in-Stiles himself covered in leaves and dirt and looking of death with Scott holding him up by the back of his shirt. It was one of his less heroic moments. "You don't even _own_ a sleeping bag."

"Everyone was doing it." He blames the wads of tissues for the flem in his voice and the way his dad looks watery in the doorway.

"You mean Scott was doing it."

"Not just Scott."

"Uh-huh."

"Lydia was there!" His voice cracks like a lie, but he was certain she was. For some of it. For a little. For a moment. "And-uh-Jackson." Which probably sounds like the biggest lie of them all if his dad's face is anything to go by. Jackson? The same one who had a restraining order on them? Stiles shuts his eyes and groans. "Really, Dad. Really."

What he really means is: really, don't push. Please. Let it go. This is nothing. I face death daily with a wolfpack of ridiculous teenagers headed by a twenty-something who is probably one death away from turning into a serial killer. His dad probably gets: please. Don't push. I did something stupid. It was probably a dare. I probably don't have STIs. No one got hurt. And I didn't even turn up at a crime scene this time.

Stiles is okay with that.

"You sure you'll be okay today?" Stiles turns his head again and nods. He'll be fine. "Well, call me if you need anything." He holds up a finger. "But not any of that crazy stuff. Milk. Cough drops. Not Silk and organic grass substitute."

"Yeah. Go. I'm good, Dad. _Good_."

* * *

He dreams of a woman standing next to his mother. The woman has wide warm palms the color of rich wood and cinnamon and she holds his face in her hands like she's cupping an egg. He feels all of five years old-all baby-face and sleepy eyes after a long day of racing trucks with Scott and running around the playground. "You can't let this go on, Dari."

"And what would you have me do?" His mother is unhappy-her hands waspish in the splash of too-bright sunshine. He can't see her face and her fingers disappear into white.

"Let me do right by him." The words are calm. Calculated. They have a bit of bite in them and a little bit of earth. Stiles smells roots and blood and tastes it on his tongue.

And suddenly he's sitting on a stool in someone else's kitchen. The tiles are all wrong and yellow. His mother's eyes loop pale gray, the life bled out of them, as she leans over him cupping a teacup that smells like ginger. There are leaves and petals sticking over the limb and it looks like a growing thing. "You have to drink, Stiles."

"Genim." It's the woman from before. Her hair is tied up in a red handkerchief and she leans over a pot on the stove, but it doesn't smell like soup. It smells like tea and blood. She looks over at them all serious. It makes him squirm. He wants to get down.

"Genim. You have to drink for mommy."

His eyes water. He doesn't want to. _He doesn't want to._

There's someone in the corner that no one can see and she's shaking her head at him and saying, _No_.

And he wakes up and jerks into Derek's face. "Derek," he says but it comes out through pillows and ends up _Dreggeg_. The look Stiles receives in return would have been hysterical if, really, Derek were even mildly more expressive. Also, if he didn't have mattress breath from being sprawled out on his stomach breathing into his sheets for the past-he twists to read the clock-four hours.

"What are you doing here?" He tries again, and the words come out so much better-even without water or a breath mint. Derek leans back into the wall. Stiles is half-dead and half-naked under his sheets. Even if he sent Derek to do a half-naked strip tease for Danny a year or so ago he's not about to offer Derek one in return so, yeah, the best thing Derek can do is lean away. "I mean, okay, whatever. I'm used to you just appearing in my bedroom or whatever but _what_ is it this time?"

"Stiles?"

He props himself up on his arm and focuses. Tries to, anyway. "Yeah?"

"Shut up."

Stiles makes a face and slinks back down. He feels like he's doing some sort of accidental skin-show just by virtue of wearing nothing but sleep pants. He'd probably feel a lot sexier if Derek was a girl... and if he felt up for more than just dragging Derek through whatever conversation he obviously wanted. "Just making sure I'm not dead?"

"Something like that." Derek is still staring at him, which is the normal way of business with the Alpha. If Stiles had the energy he might flick him off or set off on a tangent. Or remind him of that time he almost had to cut off his arm. Good times. Good times. Or that time he got poisoned by Chris' flacky (lackey?) during a pack meet. "Let me see your hand."

"My-what?" Of all the things-and then he's being half drug across his bed and almost over the edge. Derek's got his hand in a vice, twisting and turning it like he's never seen five fingers of pasty human hand before in his life. "Woah!" Stiles pulls back, more out of confusion than any real concern. "The only thing I can think of with you holding my hand is you trying to give me a manicure, dude, and-you're thinking of maiming me with a cuticle brush, aren't you?"

"_Maybe_." The look he receives in return could melt stone.

"Well, don't. I have had enough with the near-death thing, okay?" He retrieves his hand and pushes out with both, as though brushing away the possible homicide-by-Alpha that was on the table. "What were you looking for? The bits of forest I stole?"

"Poisons sometimes show up in nails, dumbass." Which, now that Derek mentions it, is a good point-and Stiles is very pro-not dying.

"Oh. Yeah. I knew that." He did. Somewhere. "But its just some sort of wolfsbane, right? Like, not the deadly-to-humans kind."

It's all deadly to humans, but Stiles is here. In bed. Starving, now that he thinks about it, but fine. And human. Can't forget that. He pats himself down to be sure. No bites. And his mother-his mother was amazing, but she was also human. Humans die. She died. It was all very human.

Derek rolls his eyes. "No. I don't think so-but you seem to be alright now." He takes a step closer again and leans over, looking into his eyes. "Your pupils look a little big."

"Curtains, man. Curtains do wonders for your eyes."

"I want you to get checked out." Stiles almost asks 'by who'?

But he knows.

* * *

Which is how he ends up eating soup while sitting on the vet counter with a pen light shining in his eyes. "Well, everything looks normal."

Stiles could have told Derek that. He could have told himself that, actually. And if either of them had listened to him he could be home instead of a miserable pile of flesh drinking cold tomato soup and flinching at the lights.

"His pupils are blown." Derek says this like it's an accusation. As though it's Dr. Deaton's fault that Stiles has wild eyes after a night of running through the woods out of his mind.

"They are a little sluggish-but it might just be from whatever he was given." There is a significant look thrown Derek's way. "Or some mild head trauma." Stiles had told him everything, after all. "Or even possibly the cold he's got." He glances back at Stiles and Stiles is instantly reminded of that dream-the woman with the warm hands and the strange stove. "But congratulations. You don't seem to be dying."

"I feel like I'm dying." Stiles croaks. His voice has gone from decent to ancient in no time flat and all he wants is to be burried in covers again. He curves down, shivers, feels miserable. "This is hell, so I must be dying." Or dreaming. He could be dreaming-and then there's something heavy around his shoulders and it smells like leather and no dream could cover this weirdness.

Stiles doesn't know whither to feel flattered or embarrassed. He settles for peevish. "Thanks and all but can we just go home now?"

"Fine, if you don't want it-"

Stiles sticks his arms through the sleeves of Derek's coat, and slumps further.

Dr. Deaton doesn't seem to notice, "Take some Tylenol, Stiles, and call it a night."

"It's two p.m."

"I know."

* * *

He sleeps through Scott's visit. And Erika and Isaac's attempts to video chat him. Why they'd want to see him die slowly (because he is dying slowly. He is. Dr. Deaton just didn't have all his facts when they visited him) he's not so sure but, apparently, one of them stops by a few hours later and looks in at him from the window. Someone has been taking Derek's lessons a little too seriously, and Stiles can only hope that it was Erika to preserve some fantasy or Isaac to pretend he can preserve some dignity.

When he does wake up fully again it's two a.m. to his last wake-up's two p.m. He's alone-which is both surprising and, oddly, unnerving. He pads from his bed and stumbles into his door face first. It's not one of Stile's more dignified moments, but he can't seem to care. Dinner is calling. Or breakfast. Or something that ends with food in his mouth.

And a lot of it. Even if it has to be yogurt and bread and other BRATS foods. Bananas, Rice, Applesauce and Toast. Plain food because his stomach is rebelling and the hallway feels like a minefield of where-did-what-land.

He gets toast and peanut butter and hopes it's just enough on the first try. He eats it in the kitchen with the lights off-if he turned them on he'd wake his dad and he dad needs his sleep. There's work tomorrow. He is still fixing the station after Matt's carnage, and his dad doesn't need his kid reminding him of his wife because he manages to look a little yellow in the kitchen this late.

It takes Stiles a while to focus on anything but the food in front of him. Two and a half pieces of toast, few bites of a banana, and the world seems to focus just a little bit more. He still feels ill and shaky, but he can start noticing things, too. Like the stack of mail on the counter. He'll have to go through and sort it tomorrow. Also there's the sound like someone's breathing.

Breathing.

To his left.

He expects to turn and see Derek. It'd be a Derek thing to do. Creepy asshole just turning up and _breathing_ like this is his house to breathe in.

Stiles turns. He looks. No one is there.

The hall light is still off. His dad must still be in bed.

His stomach rolls, and he pushes the rest of the toast away. He's not hungry anymore,


	3. Chapter 3

Getting better is mind over matter. Though he has evidence suggesting otherwise, Stiles clings to the idea jealously and uses it to escape the house three days later. If he can convince himself he is well then he is. He can grit his teeth, wear an extra hoody to class and...

Fall asleep during lunch with Boyd prodding him in the sid with his elbow because Scott's too busy making moon eyes at Allison from across the cafeteria.

"You sure you should be back so soon?"

"I'm _fine_." Stiles rests against his elbows and tries to remember what Allison had said about that night. She hadn't known-did she ever?-and she was not supposed to go to secret werewolf meetings anymore. Like that worked. Ever. Outside of a week.. "Got checked out and everything. You can ask Derek. Or, you know, check yourself and Isaac and Erika seeing as you three have decided to take his lessons-in-stalking."

If Stiles were hoping for some sort of abashment he would have been disappointed. Boyd _smiled_. "What's my grade?"

"A minus." Stiles stuffs a handful of curly fries into his mouth and chews obnoxiously. Which is, of course, when Lydia would walk by-seemingly intent to sit in front of him before eyeing him and swinging her hips onto Allison's table. "You would have gotten an A except Isaac used the mail ruse the day before."

"I brought in the newspaper," Scott adds, helpfully. Stiles is not convinced he's actually been paying attention but nods, flicking his fingers at Scott as if to say-yes, and that. Because nothing says friendly neighborhood werewolf as fetching the newspaper.

"Look. You can't blame us for checking up on you," Boyd says this like it's perfectly logical for a werewolf pack to be dropping by the Sheriff's son's house. His father has likely officially upgraded his theories about the other night from awkward socialization to hazing gone wrong. Half of these borderline strangers are just there to make sure Stiles isn't talking. "You-whatever they gave you... it wasn't pretty and Derek is sure that if they had gotten any of us instead we'd be dead."

Which is not a thought Stiles ever wants to have-but then Boyd is eyeing him like he's about to grow three heads spouting Latin. Backwards.

And Stiles-he's smart but he's never been Lydia. Good grades across the board but nothing special with languages and numbers don't fill him with an odd sort of joy. And despite having had his fair share of running crazily through the woods-he hasn't _yet_ reached nervous breakdown.

It's inevitably only a matter of time.

"I don't remember it." He offers in return with a loose shrug of his shoulder. "But whatever it is has run its course." He pauses, considers, and then smiles slowly. "Does this mean you'll cut me a deal sneaking into the skating rink?"

Boyd seems to think about this for a long moment and Stiles feels hope rise in his chest. "Only if I can come too." He amends. "All of us."

Stiles is surprisingly okay with that.

* * *

There is a ginger root in his locker. Stiles knows what it is because his mother used to hang herbs and roots in the window-to dry out or keep, Stiles never really asked or understood. The only thing he has ever been fully sure about with herbs is that they are good in cooking and smell nice. When he was little he had to stand on a stool to reach them and even now he misses seeing them around but can't quite make himself hang any.

So there's a root that looks like an awkward growth hanging from a blue string in his locker-and, when he looks again, a black candle. It's highschool. Even here, where there's little outright bullying, occasionally someone will whisper about someone else being a satanist. Mostly it circulates in rumors and eventually burns out-but Stiles is willing to assume someone upped the ante and decided to pop what they think is 'in' in satanic rituals in his locker.

"Ha-Ha, guys." He pulls the root out of his locker and turns it around. No name. No indication of who it's from or why. The root overflows the palm of his hand and down his wrist. "Very funny. Thanks, though. Now I can spice dinner."

If anyone was watching for a response it doesn't seem like it. The few people around after lacrosse practice just eye him warily like he's another nutjob in the making. _Great_.

"What's up?" Scott asks, saddling up to his locker. His fingers are on his phone and Stiles suppresses the urge to roll his eyes as Scott texts. At least they are texting Lydia now rather than having him run all around the school.

"Nothing. It's just something stupid."

* * *

Then there is a bunch of holly leaves on his front porch next to a bundle of sage.

Stiles sweeps the holly leaves onto the side of the house and takes the sage inside. Now this...well, it could be someone still think's he's a satanist and has some _really wrong_ ideas about satanists or, more likely, it's someone well meaning and awkward.

He'd call Scott except he's pretty sure that he barely knows the basics of Día de los Muertos, much less new age wiccan herb practices or whatever the hell this is. All Stiles knows is the bits and pieces of thing's he's picked up on the internet and what he remembers his mother telling him, laughingly, as she made pasta.

_"Thyme for nightmares and money. Pepper to burn out the people who need going."_ She pinched his nose. _"Don't look so serious, Stiles, I'd never burn you out."_

He had asked what was good for health. He wondered why she had never said before and promptly forgot all but two of the spices she listed. From then on, every meal that graced his mother's lips had been dressed with lemon mint and thyme.

He texts Derek.

_So, do you know why herbs keep showing up? Trying to promote well-being? 'Cause if you are, you probably need to look at your own food first. Just saying._

Answers are rarely instantaneous so he slips his phone into his pocket and picks up the sage bundle. He almosts puts it in the cabinet then pauses, deliberates mentally a moment, and then places it in the kitchen window-leaning against the window jamb. After another moment he adds the ginger-it looks even creepier on the sill. He feels like it's going to start crawling across the window the moment he looks away. Stiles is inspecting his handiwork and feeling quite pleased with himself when Derek texts back. Possibly under duress-Stiles no longer knows how often he's alone after school.

_What are you talking about?_

Stiles sighs through his nose and decides to call-because texting out post-lacrosse herb events would take far too long.

"Stiles." Derek answered at the first ring, which makes a startling jump up his list of _weird_ for today. Not because he didn't expect Derek to answer but that he sort of thought it might take an extra moment. "You said something about...herbs."

Derek sounds as though he's bracing for Stiles to bullshit him. Sort of pinched and nasally mixed with a husky not-growl and Stiles throws up a hand to the Gods that clearly aren't paying any attention to him.

Or they are and that's why his life has practically been a joke for the past year or so. "Look, I found a whole ginger root in my locker and then holly leaves and sage on my doorstep. I figured you might have continued to be the world's creepiest mother hen and decided to supplement my dad's aging herb supply."

"What?" Confusion. If Stiles hadn't already decided it wasn't Derek's creepy well meaning attempt at suggesting his diet needed improving he would have now.

"Yeah, probably just some kid's stupid idea of satanism." Stiles has nothing else to say. He realizes he has nothing else to say except to babble into the phone line and so he should hang up. "But luckily it's not you! So I'm just going to go now-"

"Wait-Stiles. Don't hang-"

Click. Stiles watches Derek call back, probably frothing, and lets it go into voicemail. Over the past few days he's seen enough of the wolf-pack and associated members to last two weeks-and he's reasonably sure that even if he does answer Derek will be visiting soon enough so why court additional conversations?

* * *

Stiles knows he should be thankful that Derek waited until _after_ dinner to show up but he's just had to explain away the new herbs and, hello, that's weird-even for Beacon Hills. It's not dangerous weird, though, which makes it all the stranger. "You hung up on me."

Stiles doesn't jump. He is picking through his text books, pretending he's going to be getting at some of that make up work. Yes. Sure. He has _plans_. School work plans. "Yeah, man, I was just verifying that you didn't leave me flowers."

Wrong thing to say to a high strong werewolf. One moment he's looking at his math book, the next he's using it to shove into Derek's chest as the man checks him into the wall. It'd be surprising if it wasn't, like, the fourth or fifth time. "You don't do that now."

"Oh. Right." Stiles shoves, but Derek doesn't move. He's a brick house and Stiles is a twig. He gets it. Luckily Stile's defense is sarcasm and he's a pro at that. Olympic gold, if he's being honest.. " Like you don't throw me into walls and get in my face. Like this is a new dynamic in our relationship."

Derek backs off-but not enough to get out of Stiles' personal bubble. He's still close enough that if he bent at 30 degrees his face would be in Derek's chest. It's _uncomfortable_. Worse that he notices it. "Better?"

It's not, but Stiles nods anyway. "So, yeah. I got herbs. And a candle. But it's probably some prank." Or Chris Argent, but Stiles has no idea why they would be sending him anything. Were they going to send him a bath ball next? Maybe a nice loofah?

Derek leans in and _sniffs_ him. Which aside from being awkward is also leading them directly into the uncomfortable zone. Even if he once sent Scott to sniff up the lacrosse team there needs to be lines drawn. Lines like Stiles and personal space. "Seriously. It was ginger, sage, and holly leaves. Not exactly the most scary of plant life, dude."

There's a pause, and Stile's thinks that Derek might actually believe him and, well, leave-possibly after some aggressive body language. "You're eyes are still blown."

That's a curveball and Stiles sputters, swinging his face around to actually look Derek in the face. "The lighting in here isn't good."

"No, really. They're still blown." Derek grabs his chin hard enough to bruise and forces him to tilt his head straight up.

"It's the lighting." Stiles feels his mouth moving before he even thinks and that is _always_ a bad sign. "I've been telling my dad we need to get those new light bulbs. Those curly ones. They're better for the environment and I'm all for that. But does he listen-"

"It's. Not. The. Lighting."

Stiles quiets. Waits a beat. Two. He's not about to address the effects of stimulants with _Derek_ and, anyway, he's pretty sure that Derek's obsession with his eyes is that they are _more_ messed up than normal. Either that or the other day was the first time he looked Stiles in the face regardless of him, well, being in Stile's face every other day. "Well, I'm fine and we're? We're not going to Dr. Deaton."

If he really has crazy eyes than that explains the influx of weird gifts and means it's time for a real doctor. One who deals with humans. More than occasionally.

Derek is giving him a look so he throws up his hands again, dropping his math book in the process. "Look. I'll go to a doctor." At some point. When hell freezes over. "But not tonight and we're not bothering Dr. Deaton." He shrugs. "Besides Scott is working tonight, and he was already freaked out enough." In his own way. Sort of. Actually, Scott seemed to have decided the whole event has dissipated and no longer warrants concerned, kicked puppy, looks or newspaper retrieval.

"_Fine_." Stiles has never been so glad to hear such angry acceptance in his life.

* * *

Derek, though, isn't entirely convinced (Derek is never convinced about anything that isn't _Derek_ and therein lies the tragedy of half the teens in Beacon Hill), but Stiles doesn't have the energy to deal with anything more today and banishes him by calling his dad. Derek may not be a fugitive anymore but what twenty-something would want to be caught inches from a teenage boy in his bedroom? Not Derek, that's for sure, and not just because he'd look like a pedophile.

Stiles trashes the nearly nonexistent impulse to finish his incomplete assignments and instead crashes on the bed.

He can smell ginger and sage and when he thinks about it it's like he can smell cinnamon and thyme, too. His mother was never the best cook but she always had spices and they always went somewhere.

He breaths and he must dream because the next thing he knows he's sitting on the edge of his bed and there's a woman with no eyes sitting in front of his computer. Though Jackson would say otherwise-it's the lack of eyes rather than the gender that tells him _this is a dream. This_ must_ be a dream_.

"Hey-What are you doing here?" It's weird. It's very weird. She's five-foot with stringy hair and no eyes. She looks more like a blot of ink on paper than human and Stiles is sure that if he reached out-if he reached out right now his hand should, _would_, go through her.

And he's not sure why the thought freaks him out so much because _this is a dream_.

"Oh, visiting." She smiles at him and it's white paint on black ink-sharp and discongruent.

"But-_why?_"

"Stiles." She tilts her head at him and for a moment she's running into the chair that she's sitting on. Or maybe the chair is flowing upwards into her. It makes his eyes burn with the need to blink. "Don't you remember me?"

He doesn't.

He doesn't and he's shaking his head at her as she smiles-or he thinks she smiles-serenely. "You will."

He looks down and in an instant Stiles is five again and he smells bloody ginger tea. To his right a pot is being stirred by a large spoon over an unfamiliar stove. _Genim, you have to drink_. His mother is thin and bent at the waist, pushing a cup into his hands. _Please_. Over the lip of the blue chipped cup he can see a girl in the corner shaking her head at him, telling him _no_. Don't drink. She looks like she's bleeding into the floor and he can't stop staring even as his mom tilts his chin whispering,

Please. For _mom_.

Because at the same time the little girl is shaking her head and sucking the words out, Please _don't_ for _me_.

There is no sound.

And that's when Stiles looks up again and sees the woman at the computer. He looks at her, closes his eyes, and wakes up.


	4. Chapter 4

Scott corners him three days later. It's not so much that they haven't been hanging out and talking as Scott's been distracted with Allison and their never-going-to-openly-happen-again romance and Stiles has been... well, he's been dreaming of strange ink women and finding herbs under his pillow. Stiles has narrowed the herb giver down to not Derek, not Erica, not Boyd-and honestly he's at an impasse because he has no idea who else it could be. Allison doesn't seem the type and her father - well, that would be creepy. "So what's been going on with you anyway?"

"What's going on with me?" It's not that he's deflecting, it's that he's honestly sort of curious. Scott isn't the most emotionally sensitive guy and on a scale of before-werewolf-Scott and Beacon's latest apocalypse the past week has been rather benign. Stiles is even willing to write up the herbs as some sort of bizarre hazing that no one's owned up to yet. "Nothing. I mean. I keep being given herbs but besides that and my startling lack of detention later... not much."

"I mean...it's just that." Scott leans heavily against the lockers, shuffling his backpack which is emptier than it should be. He leans in, shifts his eyebrows and as always he looks more like a harmed puppy than a teenager who turns into a werewolf once a month. "You know, you went running. Through the woods. And then the herb thing."

Stiles, who had been at least pretending to visit his locker stops abruptly to toss his hands into the air. He suddenly has clarity of what Scott was attempting to allude to. The allusion was pretty good for Scott. Normally he just came out and said it. "Yes, Scott, I'm pulling a Lydia. Soon I will be screaming at ice-rinks, drugging the two people who would come to a party I'd throw, and raising the dead."

"More than two people would show up if you threw a party." It would almost be kind of Scott to focus on that part if Stiles didn't think that was, really, what he had latched on to.

"I'm not counting a pack of werewolves who camp out at my place whenever they feel like it anyway."

Scott just looks at him and Stiles doesn't want to know what he's trying to pull and doens't really care so long as Scott isn't trying to sniff him. Granted, the worst he'd smell is sage and, well, there are much worse things to smell of. Stiles shuts his locker. "Look. I'm fine. Weird dreams-but its not like thats unusual. I mean, I'm friends with werewolves. That's weird." Stiles' moves like he's boxing the concepts. One on one side of his locker door and the other on the other side. "Dreams... not weird."

"Yeah." Scott doesn't look entirely sold but he's nodding anyway. "Yeah, I guess your right. I mean. Everyone has dreams, right?"

Just not dreams like this, Stiles thinks, and waves it off. "Yeah. Exactly. I'd tell you if something were up, Dude." He snaps Scott on the back, grabbing his shoulder as he pulls him down the hall. "So what do you think? Ice Skating or should we just avoid that altogether in case of a repeat."

He's mostly joking. Mostly. But Scott suggests a movie night instead.

* * *

They watch the movie in another section of the old subway system. This one is less well kept up-bits of plaster litter the floor and there are few, if any, cars available. They take it over anyway. Derek has been on the lookout for another residence but with his name on the lease it wouldn't be hard to figure out who owns it and who else likely crashes there.

Someone, Stiles thinks Isaac, drug an old box tv and DVD player. Someone else supplied the sofa-Derek or Boyd. Stiles supplies the movie-an appropriately bad movie called _Cemetary Gates_ which is more of a purposefully bad horror flick than anything else. It has Erica making faces and Derek looking vaguely freaked out when he comes in from the half blocked off stairwell.

"What is this?"

Stiles glances over, head slipping over Scott's shoulder as a piece of popcorn misses his mouth. "Movie night."

"I can see that." Derek walks over to one of the armrests and stares at the screen. "Any particular reason why?"

"It was this or ice skating." Lydia is not there-she's sticking with Allison who is currently not exactly invited to the new hangouts given the last set of dramatics. Scott is glued more to his phone than the movie, but Stiles will take this as a win.

"And I sort of want to keep my job," Boyd adds, reaching over Erica to get the popcorn.

"Practice after." Derek leans against the wall. No one protests and Stiles leaves after the movie. He'd rather not add the sound of his friends' bones snapping to his dreams.

* * *

The first time Stiles broke was when he was four years old.

That's the thing about people. They break in different ways-but they always break sometime. He broke then.

He was standing in the woods knee deep in leaves. It was cold and wet. Too late in autumn for the woods to be pleasant. Even when he let go of his mother's hand and raced through the leaves to send them up in a wave about his knees it didn't send the delicious little thrill it normally did. He stood in the pile and looked back. His mother's face was serious so he called out, red rain boots squishing in the ear. "Mom!" He flung his arms out like a helicopter, felt like he was flying with the bare branches spinning overhead. "_Mom_. _Lookatme_!"

Stiles threw himself into a stop, almost toppling, and looked back at her expectantly. She was were he left her, waiting. Staring straight ahead and through him.

Through him.

Stiles shivered. His smile faltered as he lowered his hands. "Mommy?"

She started and looked at him. "Oh." He didn't understand then. Later, he would see the tests pile up. This was only round one and he was too young to know anything except something was _wrongwrongwrong_.

And that was the first break and the most important. It felt like the corner of his eye chipped, and he screwed his eyes shut in phantom pain.

He could hear the leaves crunch and twigs snap as his mother rushed to him, scooping him into her arms and spinning them both around bodily. His legs dangled as his ear pressed against the fearful tattoo coming from his mother's breast. "Oh, my boy." She ran a thumb ran lightly from the corner of his eye to the bottom of his puffy baby cheek. Stiles rubbed his face back with the back of his hand, eyes winking over his mother's shoulder.

Behind her was a little girl dressed in ink that frowned at him from an oak tree. Further behind her was one of the older boys he'd met once or twice. Last time was in the library when he couldn't reach one of the books he wanted. The other boy had picked gotten it down for him before being drug off by a girl.

His mother shook her head, the billow of her black hair framing her face like a cloud and obscuring his vision. "I am sorry."

"There is someone." He meant the girl but when his mother turned she smiled, genuinely this time, and called out, "Mrs. Hale!"

When they went for tea, Stiles watched them leave the ink-dressed girl standing at the tree. He squirmed. "No. You're forgetting her."

"Forgetting who?"

The little girl smiled sharply and came along. No one ever had to invite her, Stiles learned later, she was always just _there._

* * *

"You've been quieter lately."

Stiles carefully puts down the carton of chinese and wonders if he should have made more of a fuss over ordering take-out this one time. It had just seemed like the best solution-they had finished leftovers the night before and his dad was working the late shift. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

The joke is weak, and Stiles winces after it, knowing. His father makes a face as he takes the carton and sets it closer to him on his desk. "Well, it could be!"

Stiles decides not to mention any of the times he's been asked to settle down, quiet down, or otherwise. "I donno." He shrugs carelessly and pulls out his own carton of cashew chicken. It's not entirely healthy but at least he was able to pull his dad away from the fried and breaded menu options. "I guess I've just been busy?"

His dad gives a look of long suffering as he pulls out a fork and takes a bite. "Busy."

"Yeah." Stiles pulls out juice from a convenience store. Vodka is not an option when his dad is working. He feels awful for thinking that's unfortunate. "I mean, getting my school stuff finished. Lacrosse. I guess I can tell you about history class-"

"No. That's fine." Another thoughtful bite. "So long as you aren't writing history in economics again."

Stiles can't help the grin that explodes across his face. It is an inch from a smirk and he can't care. "Promise."

"You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"

The question settles like a lead weight in Stiles' stomach and he forces another mouthful of Chinese before answering. "Yeah-Yeah! Of course."

Just like he told his dad about Derek. About Scott. About monster lizards and werewolves.

"I saw the herbs." His dad lets out another breath and this conversation is like pulling teeth. Stiles is mentally bracing for impact. "I think your mom would... I think she would like it."

The smile Stiles returns is lopsided. "Yeah. I think she would."

"Have you been missing her?"

They both know they always miss her-but Stiles thinks he understands.

"I've been thinking about her a lot lately." It's not a lie. It's not. But Stiles looks away anyway, gestures with his chopsticks. "The herbs."

His dad nods and drops the subject-turning instead to Lacrosse and how the team is. Stiles tries not to feel relief.

* * *

Stiles doesn't dream of Ink girls or women's kitchens. This time he's back to the old dream. The running dream. In the back of his mind he feels like this is coming home-and when he wakes up he will find warm vanilla milk and apple slices. Neither are waiting for him.

His dad is still at work.

Right now, though, he is running through the woods with a ginger-root in his hand. His faces is wet and he thinks, _I am crying_. He doesn't know why he is. It doesn't matter.

He runs, nearly retching, and spins out into a clearing with his breath coming in puffing little gasps.

Stiles grabs his knees and waits. The moon is full and wanting above him. He expects to hear the sound of wolves. Beneath him there is a carpet of red and brown leaves. One second. Two. A black drop appears.

One drop.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Stiles puts a hand to his face and pulls it away. In the darkness he should barely be able to see anything, but in this dream it's clear.

His fingers come back black as ink.

It swirls into the whirls of his skin and slides down his knuckles. Wet and willing.

He reaches up again, traces the wet with careful fingers up and into the corner of his eye.

* * *

Stiles doesn't wake up screaming.

* * *

Derek finds him in the kitchen. Stiles doesn't know why he's there again but doesn't bother to send him away. It's three am and the milk in his hand has long grown cold.

"Do you seriously watch me sleep or something-because I have to say that's pretty damn creepy." The jab is half-hearted at best and Derek doesn't answer. He reaches over and takes a few slices of banana to pop into his mouth. "Seriously, Derek."

"I don't." It's not much of a reassurance and Stiles is fairly certain that fact is clear as day to anyone maintaining three brain cells. "I couldn't sleep."

"Well, that's reassuring."

A grunt, Stiles keeps his eyes on the window. "When I can't sleep I walk _by_ everyone's houses."

That was doubly not reassuring. Stiles deadpans the obvious, "This window faces the back."

"I sometimes walk around the back." Derek's reflection at least has the good sense to look somewhat uncomfortable. "I got some calls when I-"

"Yes, and creeping around back looking like a prowler won't get you in trouble." Stiles sighs and pushes himself off the stool. "Let me get you something to drink and then you're leaving."

Stiles won't say he's thankful for the company.


	5. Chapter 5

**Note**: I just wanted to tell everyone whose been commenting on this-and other fics-that I really appreciate it. I've never had such warm responses to anything I've written before. So thank you.

* * *

It's been a week. Stiles still dreams of ink women and his eyes dripping black onto forest floors. He's cut out almost all sugar from his diet, started looking at his adderal as suspect, and confided in no one.

Bad dreams no longer rank as important in light of how he and his friends' lives have become one collective nightmare that seems to have run into a strange lull. It helps that whoever has been sending him herbs has decided to stop and that most pack members, friends, and family have gotten their continued concern out of their system. No one, at least for the past three days, has asked him outright if he's okay.

He _is_.

The closest he's gotten to concern today was Jackson checking him onto the field in lacrosse. Considering the last year Stiles is willing to accept that as the boy's go-to-maneuver for checking others for emotional elasticity. Emotional constipation thy name is Wolf-Pack, and Stiles isn't stupid enough to attempt to disqualify himself from the category.[[MORE]]

Stiles is packing up from lacrosse practice when the last person he ever expected a check up from pulls up beside his jeep-effectively boxing it in. Back suv, scruffy blond-it all but screams hunter or pissed off father and in this case the answer is probably both. Chris Argent may not be Stiles favorite hunter, but he's far from his least. Even after the flowers-in-face incident Stiles is reluctant to just jump into his car-he just washed _and_ waxed and hard turning his baby into the lacrosse field would ruin that.

His hand is still jammed into his pocket and finger slides over the flat lcd screen as he hopes he blindly hits the right keys. Stiles set up Circle of 6 the moment it became available. An anti-rape/assault app that sent out text messages requesting help and sending gps to six trusted people? In Beacon Hills? Hell. Yes. Stiles may not be willing to run but he's not _stupid_. He knows what undertones follow after the sixth time an older dude has gotten all up in his face.

"If you're here to check up on me-I'm fine. Thanks for asking." He's still fiddling in his pocket, and Chris is still stalking towards him-one wide step at a time to get right in his face.

His six are Derek, Lyda, Erica, Danny, Isaac, and Allison-because if there is any phone that Scott will pay attention to, it's his not-girlfriend's. Honestly, Stiles might have chosen Doc Deacon if he didn't want to keep the panic strictly at the near-school-circle level. Stiles was a firm believer that once a real adult knew there was only a matter of time before everyone's parents knew. Derek Hale does not count as a real adult (Derek Hale buys lucky charms for himself).

He had tested this theory at seven when half his class followed him to the best part of the woods to climb trees in. All it took was one kid telling his mom and it was all over. Only two people got to climb before a swarm of mothers and fathers swooped in to "protect them".

Message sent, Chris apparently decides to up his loom-and-stalk to shoving Stiles' shoulder into the jeep door.

"Hey, come on." Stiles just wants to go home, warm up leftovers, and watch some trashy tv with his dad. Not start some werewolf-hunter beef because someone's bullshit meter went off.

Chris leans right into his face, so much so that Stiles can smell his aftershave and sweat-and then just as suddenly backs off. Two whole steps. "You really _didn't_ realize, did you?"

"Realize what?" Stiles shoves his hand in his pocket again and tries to make his frozen to the jeep door stance look more like a relaxed repose of cool.

"Your sealant," Chris says this slowly, as though Stiles should suddenly clue in to whatever it is that Chris Argent thinks he should know.

Stiles glances down towards his tires. No. They look pretty sealed. No holes. No slightly slowed tires on that side. He checks the other side.

"No." And is that frustration? It sounds like frustration-and Stiles isn't sure his bullshit meter is up for this. "Look." And isn't that a ginger root coming out from Chris Argent's jacket pocket? Stiles is pretty sure that's a ginger root, just like the one he found in his locker in Allison's dad's hand. "You know what to do with this?"

"Spice some really great fried rice?" Stiles takes it from Chris' unresisting hand, looks it over, and then blithely throws it over the top of his jeep without looking. "Look, I don't know what-"

"_Stiles!_" Out of everyone Stiles insta-contacted, Allison is legitimately the least person he expected to see. Yes, she was on the list but he had expected her to come in a pair with Scott, if at all.

But there she is-brown hair perfectly coffered, comfortable jeans. She's smiling like they're great friends and this isn't a huge surprise, probably to all involved. "Uh- Hey, Allison."

"You still going to give me a ride to Lydia's?" She slides around her fathers suv and around her father to grasp Stiles around the arm. "Hi, Dad! Stiles and I are going to study at Lydia's."

Stiles has always been impressed by Lydia's ability to flash her eyes sweetly but Allison has it down pretty well, too. Though the scratch of hastily made-up excuses ranks almost bad as her eyes are good. He's actually pretty sure her father's going to agree and back off further when he shakes his head.

"No, Allison." His voice is firm and Allison's grip on his arm tightens. "His seal has _sprung a leak_. You can't go anywhere with him until he gets that fixed."

Allison asks, must have asked, "What are you talking about?"

But Stiles doesn't hear her-because he suddenly knows exactly what Chris Argent is talking about.

* * *

Stiles is seven and his mother is a wisp of skin over thin bones. She is not yet confined to the hospital but Stiles can feel that possibility pulling at him from all edges. Everything in the world says, _there is going to be an ending_ and Stiles desperately wants that ending to be _good_.

The sad thing is, he is seven and no matter how many Disney movies he watches he doesn't think everything ends in 'happily ever after'.

So he promises whoever is listening. He hasn't seen the ink girl in years so he just promises out into the world at large in case someone else might be able to promise him that the toll is _enough_.

_I will eat all my vegetables_ forever...

_I won't yell at Monica for being a stupid head..._

_I'll drink that awful tea. I won't even complain..._

_I'll never climb so high again..._

_I'll wake up..._

_I'll fall asleep..._

_I'll be quiet-so quiet..._

Because Stiles' world is his mother's paperwork and the needles that grace her skin. Both try to hide these things from him but he doesn't have to see them to _know_.

This year, his seventh year, all grown up-he hangs around the edges. When his mother's friends come over for tea, he hides away in the corner and tries to wait. _Have more patience, Stiles. Please._

So he will. He will. Even if it hurts to stay so still.

"You need to take better precautions." His mother's friend Victoria is here. Stiles hates her. She has a last name he can't remember, so he just calls her Miss Victoria even though she reminds him again and again she's married. There is a sharpness to her body that makes his stomach curl.

"And what would that be, Victoria?" His mother has rose and mint tea. Stiles remembers the other woman, the woman who makes him drink bad tasting tea, handing her the packet and telling her _Mint and rose-breaking spells and love_. "There's nothing else _to_ do."

"He is a threat." And the way she says it is like a raptor. Stiles learned about those in school the year before and his mind is full of small vicious dinosaurs he instantly wants to share.

He clamps down on it, worries his lip between the few teeth he has left in his mouth, because he has the feeling they're talking about _him_.

"He is _my son_." He is right and it makes his stomach hurt. Stiles never questioned his mother's love for him but this woman with bones and skin, blue with cold under the afternoon light, levels a look Stiles never wanted to see at the raptor in the house. "He is my son. This means he will be alright."

Ms Victoria takes a sip of her tea. Her tea she brought with her. It is brown to black and Stiles doesn't trust it. Black tea is had with milk. "I wish you would talk to me." She says at length, coming at it from a different angle. "My family has generations of information we could-"

"Thank you, but I already have Nesha and Mrs. Hale."

Victoria seems to barely hold in a snort. "We have written information that could show-"

"Victoria," his mother snaps, her voice sounding like her bones. "I will never tell. I'll take it to my grave."

"Chris' father has already figured out he's an energy source." Put upon. Stiles just wants to bury his face in his mother's dress and ask for apples. But he will wait. He will wait. "If we can understand how that happened..."

_If I promise never, ever to interrupt..._

"Yes, there was a hole that made him an energy source for all sorts of bad things." His mother gets up with a sweeping motion. "No, it is not still there." She fills the kettle and puts it on again. "_Yes_, my son is _safe_."

Stiles can't handle it anymore. He tugs at his ears and breaks. "Mom, can I please have some apples and peanut butter."

Both women look so startled that he's in the kitchen at all that he's not surprised he gets both.

* * *

Stiles doesn't really process anything until he and Allison are in his jeep driving down the road. He doesn't know why they're driving, how they lost Allison's father, or how much she knows.

But she's sitting next to him calmly enough-straight faced and staring out the passenger side window with an air of _I do this everyday_ so he figures nothing terrible must have happened.

He flips on his turn signal at a stoplight and all he can think is:

Stiles Stilinski- a battery for badshit.

All he can think is: magic isn't supposed to work like this.

But Stiles has known since he was eight that he isn't like a princess in a fairytale and wishes on a star don't actually get answered.

They're halfway to the entrance to the stretch of abandoned subway the pack is tentatively calling 'home' when Allison reaches over to touch his cheek. "Stiles," she says. "Your eye is bleeding."

Stiles swipes at his cheek with the back of his hand. He doesn't have to look at it to know it's not blood—it's black. "It's fine. _I'm fine_."

Behind him a voice curls, crude oil dark, "Stiles, Stiles . What are you going to do now?"

Battery, energy source-Stiles is the socket to an eventual power-plug, and he doesn't even know what will happen then.

It makes his childhood imaginary friend-the woman all grown up in the back seat-all the more unnerving because now Stiles has the tools to consider why it's _really there_.

And what it might mean that he can see her again.

Stiles flashes a smile over at Allison again, "I'm all good. What were you even doing there? I was expecting you to be with Scott."

"Make-up exam." Allison builds a smile over her concern and Stiles thanks her for it internally as the woman in the back presses her invisible fingers across the back of his neck. It's cold, like the bite of metal on a winter day, and she laughs into his ear.

Stiles isn't a Disney princess. He's a villain in disguise.


End file.
